


The Withering

by RobinTrigue



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Body Horror, Corn - Freeform, Gen, no crop insurance kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9261167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinTrigue/pseuds/RobinTrigue
Summary: Vince McMahon decides to intimidate Brock.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanidine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanidine/gifts).



> Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

Vincent Kennedy McMahon stared at his employee over steepled fingers. He leant back in his comfy leather swivel chair and swung his feet onto the desk. Brock remained motionless and unblinking. He would not be intimidated by this suited crustacean of a man.

“Brock, Brock, Brock,” Vince said. “Brock, Brock, Brock, Brock, Brock, Brock, Brock.”

“Yes,” replied Brock.

“Brock Lesnar.”

“Yes.”

Vince nodded hard enough to rock the lumbar support on the desk chair. “You know Brock, we’re not so different, you and I. We have similar interests, we want similar things, we have similar talents.”

Brock allowed himself to laugh for a moment before returning to his stony demeanour. Vince’s eyes narrowed, like laser beams.

“Intimidation is a talent. Protecting things is an interest,” he elaborated. Brock managed to contain his laugh, but still wasn’t terribly shaken. He had everything he could ever want, and it was all either growing in the soil in Canada or tilling the soil in Canada. Vince could fire him, could cut his paycheck, and then what? Brock would return to living his dream life under the open sky. Brock and Vince had nothing in common.

Vince must have known this, but he continued talking, waving his fingers as though having an internal skeleton was new to him. When held in front of his face, they seemed to caress the figure of Brock that was seated across the desk.

“Brock Lesnar...” Vince said again, then smiled with all his teeth. A winning smile. A smile made for magazine covers, a smile made for success. “You’ve been a little disrespectful towards me, Brock. Towards my family. Towards my company. Towards things that I care about. I think it’s time for me to be a little disrespectful towards things that you care about.”

Brock settled back in his seat, beginning to relax for the first time since coming in. He’d take this slap on the wrist, maybe another fine, then head back to Paul to cut their next promo.

As Brock leant back, Vince leant forward. And just for a second, he relaxed as well. Relaxed his hold on himself, on his image. Relaxed his hold on this material form. Just a little bit. Just the bit around his left eye.

The leathery skin peeled in like a dog-eared book page. Brock’s eyes went wide as the pulsing flesh beneath it was revealed. He felt his whole body twist in horror – it was inhuman, it was unworldly – and Vince’s grin grew wider, splitting and cracking the edges of the tear an inch further. The dead skin hung down over his cheek; he could pull it back together later, if he needed to be on camera. For now, he was free to let it fall, to let that orange glow from his interior shine out onto Lesnar’s face.

Brock could feel his stomach turning and turning in revulsion as he gazed upon this unholy sight. The bottom half of Vince's eyeball was visible, white and red and roving in its socket.

“Well Brock,” said Vince. “Do we have an understanding?”

“I...” Brock clapped a hand over his mouth. It came away bloody. He could feel something inside him tearing as the exposure continued, something dying... Something important, something pure...

“It’s your crops, Brock,” said Vince. “Your plants are dying. Withering away. It can’t be explained, sometimes, what makes them die, can it? Sudden crop death? Unsourceable blights?”

“You monster,” whispered Brock, too distraught to wipe his hand on the box of tissues Vince was offering him. He was powerless, powerless as he’d never felt before.

“It’s too bad there was nothing you could do to save them. You had such a beautiful growth this season,” Vince sighed in false sadness, then let the tissues fall to the table with a clatter as he suddenly leant forwards, vicious and predatory. “You’re a fool, Lesnar, for leaving your weakness exposed and free where anything can find it. We are nothing alike because you leave your precious things where they can be struck at any moment, while I clad mine in skin, solid and impenetrable skin, skin I can find and sculpt and keep forever. I recommend you do the same, before I take that as well as what I’ve already taken from you, and then you won’t have a choice. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mr McMahon,” gasped Brock, feeling unable to breathe. Vince’s words were strange and confusing, but Brock’s skin was crawling, hurting, and more than anything he wanted to escape from this room and clutch at his heart, call his neighbour and ask her to check on his corn and alfalfa.

“Good!” Vince smiled. “Remember to tell Mr Heyman to clear the transcript of your next promo with corporate before it airs, alright?”

“Yes, Mr McMahon,” said Brock. He shook the hand that Vince held out to him; he tried to ignore the sensation that the fingers in his grip were looser than they should be, the feeling that the fingernails were wobbling in their beds and would fall off if Brock twisted the wrong way.

“Oh, and Brock?” Vince called out when Brock was nearly out the door, nearly over the threshold. “It’s a real pity you didn’t think to buy crop insurance. You should look into it. There’s no knowing what kind of terrible accidents might happen.”


End file.
